


Chord Progressions

by beetle



Category: Flight of the Conchords (TV)
Genre: M/M, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 18:52:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of five times Bret minded more than he let on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Spoilers for Ep1, S1 of “Flight Of The Conchords”.

“Whaddan idiot, tryin'a sell me a cake!”  
  
  
Dave sounds affronted as he shoos the squirrely little man with the beautiful cake away, then tosses a remote control on top of an old model tv on the shelf behind him. It's one of many electronic antiques in Dave's pawnshop.  
  
  
“Still,” Bret muses, watching the man--Isabella--scurry past and out of the door to the shop; into a sunny afternoon and sans the tv he'd wanted so badly.  
  
  
Probably be ruinous for the cake, all that sunlight. And there's always the chance Isabella might drop it.   
  
  
 _A crying shame to wreck something so nice_ , Bret thinks, steering his mind away from Sally and Jemaine for the millionth time that morning, it seems like. He shrugs at Dave. “It  _was_  a beautiful cake.”  
  
  
“Yeah, it was,” Dave agrees very somberly, with a hint of regret that quickly passes. “Anyway. D'jou guys have fun at the party?”  
  
  
“It was okay.” Which is Bret-speak for  _amazing fun_. At the same time, Jemaine says: “Amazing fun”—and that tiny, weird shiver is deja vu all over again. Never mind that despite the lovely tapas, his best mate had left Dave's party with Sally. Gone, but for the lilting, slightly nasally sound of Sally's voice, and the lingering scent of Jemaine's aftershave.  
  
  
Until that night, Bret hadn't really noticed the way they could almost complete each other's thoughts, until Jemaine started doing his sexy-dance with Sally, and--  
  
  
Murray says something about not being invited to Dave's party, all snitty and agitated like a wet hen, and before Bret knows it he's being drawn into a brief conversation about none other than Sally Welch.  
  
  
“No, that was me,” he says quietly, when Dave asks Jemaine if he used to date her. As usual, the thought of Sally and Jemaine together makes Bret's stomach feel like it's been kebabed with some sort of medieval kebabing apparatus.  
  
  
“. . . dunno how they do things in Inglin'--” Dave is saying, his eyes darting between Bret and Jemaine, with no stops to include poor Murray, who nonetheless chimes in to say  _New Zealand_  when Jemaine and Bret do.  
  
  
“I don't really give a shit,” Dave dismisses, without missing a beat. He  _never_  misses beats. “But the point is, goin' out with your best friend's ex-girlfrien' while you're still livin' with your best friend . . . that kinna thing would be considered a little  _weird_ , here in the You-Ess.”  
  
  
“Actually, it's quite weird in New Zealand, as well.” Everyone looks at Murray and he leans back a bit, licking his lips in a nervous sort of way. “Jemaine, you should think about that, you know. I've told you, when you're in a band. . . .”  
  
  
It's around here that Bret tunes out again, because Murray actually  _had_  told Jemaine something to that effect, at some point. Not that Bret remembers the exact words, but Murray certainly spends a lot of time telling them what and what not to do. It's quite likely his opinion on just this subject had come up at least once or twice.  
  
  
“Rumors,” Bret mumbles, in late response to Murray's insinuations about Fleetwood Mac and love-squares. He gets a pitying, know-it-all scoff in reply.  
  
  
“No, it's all true.” Murray states this in that honest, steady voice he uses when he doesn't know what he's talking about. Both Bret and Jemaine have agreed that a confident Murray is often a dead wrong Murray.  
  
  
“Well, the thing is, Bret's cool with it,” Jemaine jumps in to say, meaning he and Sally dating. He darts glances between Bret and Murray. This time, Dave's the one left out of all the glancing, but he probably doesn't mind. After all, he owns a shop. And somewhere, a man called 'Isabella' has a cake that he still might be willing to trade Dave—if not for a tv, then perhaps for a walkman, or . . . a flute. . . .  
  
  
“I'm not  _that_  cool with it,” slips out before Bret can stop it, and his brain shies away from the memory of Jemaine and Sally kissing on the couch. His stomach's wrapped itself about his spinal column. He feels vaguely anxious, and for no reason he can pinpoint. Not to mention a bit sweaty in odd places.  
  
  
Sally's over and done. A true ex. He neither misses her, nor regrets parting with her. Isn't even remotely fond of her.  
  
  
“Well, if Bret's cool with it, that's fine.” Murray barges between Bret and Jemaine. The former can feel the latter's dark, question-filled eyes on him, behind thick specs.  
  
  
(He reckons they could fry ants with them even on a cloudy day, but Jemaine wouldn't allow any such thing to be done with his specs, or anyone else's.  
  
  
That's one of the things Bret likes about him.)  
  
  
“Yeah, so, have you got any video cameras Dave?” Suddenly Murray's all business, gingerish hair flopping over his forehead, eyebrows raised to near comic heights. Dave smirks a little and leans on the counter.  
  
  
“Sure, whatscher budget?”  
  
  
“Budget? What do you mean, you need to . . . bring in a budget?” Those high, ginger eyebrows draw together. Bret's eyes meet Jemaine's for a moment before skittering off toward a beat-up blue Fender behind the counter. Murray's already out of his depth, and none of them even has a cake worth bartering. At least, not at hand.  
  
  
Dave rolls his eyes and adjusts his bandana. Leans on the counter again, looking annoyed. “Like, how much d'ya wanna spend?”  
  
  
Murray clears his throat and tries to look stern. “Do you want a printed out budget?” He shakes his head like a man not  _inclined_  to dicker, but willing to if necessary.   
  
  
Tired drawl from Dave: “No, I wanna know how much money y'wanna spend--”  
  
  
“--'coz I haven't worked it all out. We haven't got much cash. . . .” Murray's voice goes down half a tone. A man forced to admit an unfortunate fact. Speaking of facts, Bret doubts that, combined, they have enough cash on them for  _half_  a cake. Two, maybe three slices, but not half.  
  
  
He sighs quietly. Listening to Murray and Dave dicker isn't fun, he and Jemaine agree with yet another glance, but neither steps in to speed things along. It's too nice a day for confrontations of that sort.  
  
  
Of any sort, really.  
  
  
So when the questions in reappear in Jemaine's eyes, Bret stops looking at him, though it's hard for some reason. It feels like hiding and lying, and Bret is good at neither. All he really wants to do is go back to the flat and lay down in Jemaine's bed; pull the covers over his head and breathe, like he sometimes does when Jemaine's out.  
  
  
Instead, he fiddles with some drumsticks marked as  **PRE-OWNED**  and pretends to find the Fender more fascinating than it actually is. The knots in his stomach pull tighter, till it feels like his spine's about to give.  
  
  
First Sally, then Mel, then Sally, and now watching Murray dicker--badly--with Dave. And robots after all that. The  _last_  thing he wants to do with his Saturday afternoon is be kitted up like some robot, singing about dead humans and poisonous gases.  
  
  
Only in New York City would doing the Robot, and the Robo-Boogie be a routine Saturday activity.  
  
  
Well. Possibly in Auckland, as well.  
  
  
On the brighter side, perhaps once this camera business is done they can catch up with Isabella before they start the shoot, and dicker for two or three slices of cake.  
  



	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of five times Bret minded more than he let on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Spoilers for Ep1, S1 of “Flight Of The Conchords.”

“So . . .  _gay_ , then, is it?” Murray's eyes drift back and forth between them in a rather stern manner.  
  
  
“Very gay,” Jemaine agrees, raising their linked hands for emphasis. Bret nods decisively for good measure. It's always a good idea to be decisive when dealing with Murray. “As gay as a zoo full of drunken pandas.”  
  
  
Murray's ginger eyebrows shoot up. “Pandas? What've bears got to do with being gay?”  
  
  
“Actually, pandas are marsupials.” Bret shrugs when Murray looks even more confused. “I'm just saying. They've got the, em, pouches, an' that.”  
  
  
“The point is, we think once Mel—I mean the fan base thinks we're gay, it'll finally put her off us.” Another decisive nod—this time from Jemaine, whose hand is big, warm, and reassuring around Bret's.  
  
  
“I see.” Murray finally nods and strokes his mustache--a very recent affectation. Bret doesn't roll his eyes and Jemaine doesn't snicker. But his lips twitch just enough for Bret notice out the corner of his eyes; just enough to go speechless and disoriented. Not that Jemaine's lips have to be doing anything to make that happen anymore.  
  
  
“Huh.” Leaning back in his chair, Murray harrumphs, gazing thoughtfully into the latest New Zealand tourism poster. It has several more exclamation points than anywhere back home warrants. With the exception of Auckland. “Well, it might put her off, yes. But it might  _not_. Didn't think of that, did you?”   
  
  
Murray's eyes tick keenly between them and their linked hands, his ginger brows lowered conspiratorily. Jemaine pooches his lower lip out and mumbles that they hadn't. Bret does his best to look blank for the rest of the meeting. Never mind that he doesn't stop absently stroking Jemaine's fingers with his thumb.  
  
  
“Well,” Bret says, when Jemaine drops his hand without ceremony as they step out into the street half an hour later. “He's got a point about the fan base. It's a bad idea, pretending to be gay.”  
  
  
“I guess, yeah. But it took a lot of thought.” Jemaine's always been good at finding silver linings and bright sides. A truly amazing feat, since the sun's already going down. Maybe not so most people would notice, but Bret notices. He always does.  
  
  
“That doesn't mean it wasn't a bad idea,” he adds futilely, shoving both empty hands into his pockets. One is still warmer than the other, and tingling. “And I don't know that I like the looks the ladies at the massage parlor were giving us.”  
  
  
Jemaine purses his lips for a moment, then smiles, his eyes lit up like a kid at Christmas. “It does prove Dave's theory about girls and gay blokes, though. Didja see the way the really hot one winked at me? The one with the long hair and silver bangles?”  
  
  
Bret hadn't, but grunts like he did. When Jemaine's talking about hot women, he doesn't need input, or even agreement, just the occasional grunt or nod. It can be annoying, sometimes. It makes Bret angry, and vaguely hurt. But just the same, he wouldn't change Jemaine for anything.  
  
  
They start walking. Not directly to the flat, obviously, since the fan base might still be hanging around outside, but to Dave's pawnshop. Dave and Jemaine trade dirty jokes and flirt with female customers, while Bret faffs around on two new acoustics that have found their way into inventory.  
  
  
By the time they get back to the flat, it's night time. The fan base is long gone, and yet neither of them makes a move to go inside.  
  
  
In their respective pockets, Bret's hands are sweaty and warm, and one of them is still tingling.  
  
  
“Wanna grab a kebab?” he asks, and Jemaine grins. It's going on ten at night, but the sun's already back out.  
  
  
“Yeah, alright.” Jemaine runs a hand throuh his messy hair and laughs. "Alright."  
  
  
“Okay. Your treat?”  
  
  
“Isn't it always?”


End file.
